


The Only Heaven I'll Be Sent to (Is When I'm Alone With You)

by doctor__idiot



Series: Tumblr Prompts [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10x03 Soul Survivor, Alcohol, Angst, Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:24:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10642659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: Sam is tired. The kind of tired that penetrates to your bones, or even through them. In fact, the English language is probably lacking a word to describe how tired he is. He knows what actual sleep-deprivation over weeks feels like, and this isn’t it. This is different. Maybe even worse.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [draquete](http://draquete.tumblr.com) for prompting me with: "I never meant for it to go this far." + Wincest
> 
> Title's from Hozier's Take Me to Church.
> 
> Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine.

Sam is tired. The kind of tired that penetrates to your bones, or even through them. In fact, the English language is probably lacking a word to describe how tired he is. He knows what actual sleep-deprivation over weeks feels like, and this isn’t it. This is different. Maybe even worse.

It feels like his _soul_ is tired.

When he nudges open the door to his room, shuffling feet stumbling across the threshold, and he flicks on the light, he finds Dean sitting on the edge of his bed.

Sam jumps, out of habit, conditioned by the past weeks, but Dean’s eyes aren’t black anymore, although they look like it in the dim light, his head hanging down, focused on the half-empty bottle of gin he’s twirling in his hands.

“What are you—” Sam starts to say but never finishes because Dean looks up at him then.

Says, “I’m s’rry, Sam.”

Shaking his head, Sam sits down next to Dean, scooting to the edge of the mattress also, not as close as he would on a normal day. Whatever ‘a normal day’ looks like for them.

“You’re drunk.”

Dean nods, “Yeah.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” Sam asks, “You just went through a … a demon detox, or whatever you wanna call it.”

Dean shakes his head, “No.”

Sam isn’t going to play the mom right now. He can’t be bothered. He takes the bottle from Dean and regards it for a moment before taking a gulp. The liquid burns its way down his throat in a way that isn’t welcome. He coughs, wiping his mouth.

“I’d forgotten how vile this stuff is. Why are you drinking it?”

Dean turns up his palms in a half-shrug. “It w’s there.”

Sam suspects that logic is more or less flawless to a drunk Dean, and he isn’t going to argue with it, either. He deposits the bottle next to the bed, out of reach.

“Are you going t’ punish me?”

Sam’s head whips around, he’s staring at his brother who, in turn, is staring at his own fingers, picking at his nails, and Sam’s exhausted brain works too slowly to process Dean’s words right away.

“What?” he returns breathlessly, “No, what—”

“You should,” Dean says and Sam can only shake his head frantically, digging his knuckles into his aching eye sockets.

“Why the hell would I wanna do that?” There’s almost a laugh in the words, but it’s barely more than a huff of air, desperate and helpless and it finally makes Dean look at him.

“I…” He trails off upon seeing whatever is on Sam’s face, looking guilty and apologetic. Clueless and too young.

Sam sighs, massaging his temples. 

“I can’t believe you,” he says, “Do you even—I went through _hell_ these past six weeks trying to find you, to get you back. I didn’t know if I could even _get_ you back. I wanted you back with me, the _real_ you, so badly that I would have done anything. I could have killed you, do you realize that? If there’s anyone who should be punished, it’s me.”

Dean opens his mouth, but Sam silences him by grabbing hold of his wrist, startling him.

“But I don’t want that, either,” he continues, “I’m so sick of this game. These … guilt trips. I can’t do it anymore.”

Eyes wide and muddy-green in the low light — green _green_ , Sam reminds himself, not black —, Dean stares at him but stays quiet.

Sam squeezes his wrist once, looking down at his own fingers against the pale inside of Dean’s arm. Dean’s own fingers are flexing, curling, sinews jumping again Sam’s fingertips, but he isn’t trying to free himself.

“So no,” Sam says, “I don’t want to punish you. All I wanted was to have you here again, exactly like you are right now. So I’m gonna go ahead and call this a win.”

He looks back up at Dean’s face, taking in the ever-present crease between his eyebrows. “I want you to do something for me, though.”

Dean is already nodding before Sam finishes speaking, “Anything,” and Sam’s chest contracts, squeezing his heart and lungs and he lets go of Dean briefly to wipe a hand down his face.

“I want you to let me take care of you,” he says, ignoring Dean’s startled expression, “I want you to let me touch you, hold you. I don’t want you to push me away because you think that’s what you should do. Because you think you don’t deserve it. Because I need you right now, Dean. I moved heaven and earth to make you come back to me, and I’m not going to let you be the idiot who’s going to take you from me again.”

Dean isn’t looking at him, he’s staring down at where Sam’s palm is now slowly stroking along the length of his forearm. He isn’t moving but his breathing is shaky and Sam thinks he can see some wetness glistening in the corner of Dean’s eye, but he isn’t going to mention it.

There is a moment of quiet, then, against Sam’s expectations, Dean breathes out a small laugh. It doesn’t sound like it’s born from humor.

“I never meant for it to go this far,” he whispers, tilting his head to the side in regret.

“For what?”

Dean slides his own fingers along Sam’s pulse point, closing them around Sam’s wrist loosely, as if he’s trying it out. As if he’s unsure if he is even allowed to touch.

“I need you, Sam. I’ve always needed you and I always will, that’s the way it is and I don’t … want to change that. If I only exist because—because you do, that’s okay. But I never wanted that for you, I never wanted you to—I wanted you to be stronger than that.”

Sam is too tired to start a fight with Dean, and after everything they just went through, he doesn’t want to, either, and yet, irrationally, he can feel himself getting angry.

“You don’t get to say that to me. You don’t get to decide that something’s okay for you but not for me. You don’t get to want ‘better’ for me. I don’t want ‘better’, Dean. I don’t know how to make you understand that.”

“You always used to say you wanna get out.”

“Yeah, ‘used to’. Do I think about it? Sure. You can’t tell me you don’t. But that doesn’t mean that I would jump at the chance of having a different life. Because I’m not sure I’d want it. Not if you’re not part of it, I don’t. ‘Getting out’ doesn’t mean I want to leave you, when will you _get_ that?”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe when I haven’t been drinking disgusting liquor.”

Despite everything, Sam feels a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Dean nods, agreeing with nothing in particular, and licks his lips. “Well,” he says, wiping his hands on his thighs, pulling away from Sam’s touch, “You gotta be exhausted and I’m kinda beat, too, so I’m gonna let you get some sleep.”

He’s halfway to the door already, moving too quickly for Sam’s sluggish brain to keep up with, when Sam asks, “Where are you going?”

In different circumstances, the look of utter incomprehension on Dean’s face might be funny. He points a half-hearted finger at the door. 

“I…”

“Come back here,” Sam says and it sounds almost like an order. Maybe it is.

In any case, Dean hesitates for another moment, then pads back to where Sam is perched on the bed, bare feet barely making a noise of the stone floor.

He comes to a halt next to Sam’s knee, balancing on the balls of his feet, and Sam realizes his brother is waiting for him to take the next step, maybe give him another order, request— _demand_ something from him so he can oblige, can make up for everything that has happened.

Sam could probably make him do anything and it’s a power he doesn’t want. But maybe it’s the only thing that can even begin to knit them back together again.

So he gets up and slowly rids himself of his sling, easing his arm out of it, and strips down to his T-shirt and underwear. He throws back the comforter and slips under the blanket, melting into the softness of his mattress, and then motions for Dean to take the other half of the bed.

Dean is already wearing sweats and a worn-thin Guns’n’Roses T-shirt, so Sam just says, “Come here.”

This time there is less hesitation, as if Dean’s body is attached to a string that Sam tugs on every time he speaks.

While he burrows under the covers, he asks, “Your arm okay?”

Sam nods and turns on his side so he can face Dean, shuffling a little closer. 

Dean looks at him, wide-eyed, tension visible in his entire body, ready to take flight, and Sam says, “Stay here.”

So Dean stays. Swallows, lets out a small breath. 

They’re close enough that Sam can rest his forehead against his brother’s. The tips of their noses are touching as well and Sam whispers, “Relax.”

Dean gives another one of those small breaths, this one turning into a sigh, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He’s got one arm folded under his head and the other one between them. He splays it over Sam’s sternum and closes his eyes. 

Sam deliberately evens his breathing, trying to radiate calm and ease to Dean. After another moment, Dean relaxes completely, sinking further into the mattress.

Sam’s shoulder is steadily getting better but he still can’t move it much so he contents himself with settling his palm on Dean’s hip, on top of the fabric of his T-shirt. Dean freezes for all of two seconds, then shuffles around to get comfortable again, turning into Sam’s touch.

“Kiss me,” Sam says then and Dean’s eyes fly open. He blinks once, twice, and then inhales and dips forward. It’s barely more than a press of mouths, chaste and shy but familiar, and Sam can hear Dean’s breath hitch and feel his own heart stumble. He wants to grab hold of his brother, tug him closer, feel Dean’s hands on his body, in his hair, but he doesn’t. Lets Dean pull away after a moment.

“We’re okay,” he promises and Dean closes his eyes again, turning his face half into the pillow, nose brushing Sam’s cheek. 

One, two, three seconds tap away in silence, then Dean sighs. “Okay.”


End file.
